The body may be one of the last places where what is mine has not yet become what is mined.

Where interruption breaks the signal, refusal asks what remains once the body, the person, begins resisting. What happens between drift and ritual - between dépaysant's cloud-gazing, idleness as a way of losing the algorithm's thread, and mine's threshold, written and rewritten by hand? Can errant walking push against literal and algorithmic direction rather than merely drift from it? Is the cloud above the same sky as the one that stores us? What does grief weigh, once it becomes an object? & what do we - body and spirit - refuse and retain, when it is marked and ritualized against technology’s terms?